


Again, Stiles.

by RavenAurelieChoiseau



Category: Sterek - Fandom, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottoming from the Top, Bruises, Come Eating, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Derek is not a werewolf, Emotional Baggage, Emotionally Repressed, M/M, Power Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Stiles needs to learn to let go, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Uncut Derek Hale, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 14:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16019915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenAurelieChoiseau/pseuds/RavenAurelieChoiseau
Summary: Derek Hale is a demanding music teacher at Juilliard. Stiles Stilinski is a senior, studying under him. (And that's not the only thing Stiles would like to do from there).Stiles is unaware that also Derek is in love with him, mostly because he's been treating Stiles like crap.One day during a particularly poor rehearsal, Derek breaks Stiles, bringing him to an emotional breakthrough. With this comes Derek's admission of love. The two can't resist each other, Derek fucking him right there on the stage.I still suck at summaries but please enjoy anyway. :) Canon divergence in an AU setting.





	Again, Stiles.

The last notes hang in the air, so heavy they are nearly visible, before slowly fading into nothing. Stiles pants from the effort, bow slack against his side.  
“Maestro?” The silence that ensues isn’t promising. When he speaks, Derek Hale’s voice is thick with irritation.  
“AGAIN, Stiles. I don’t buy it.”   
Derek rests his dark head on his forearms and exhales in resignation. Before the scolded student can react, the door opens suddenly. Itzhak Perlman peeks into the gap. “Oh, hey Derek.”  
Derek takes in the elderly man and smiles weakly. “Oh, hi Maestro Perlman. How are you?”  
The master violinist raises a hand and grins back. “I’m doing very well, Derek. Very well. I wanted to ask, do you need the theatre for long today?”  
Derek raises one black eyebrow, gazing towards the stage. “Yes. It’s looking like we’re going to be here  _all afternoon._ ” He puts extra emphasis on _all._ Stiles Stilinski gulps.   
“Okay, I’ll use the smaller one across the hall. I’ve only got Anna Petrovich this hour,” Itzhak replies.  
The young man nods. “Great. Thank you. Have a good lesson, Maestro.”  
  
Itzhak shuts the door and once the locks seal them in, Derek turns his attention back to the man fidgeting at the front of the room.   
“Again, Stiles. From the top,” he says with a wave of his hand.   
Stiles shifts in the chair, a poor attempt at getting comfortable. He’s the furthest thing from that state. The room is hot, the lights are blinding, and his arms hurt. But this isn’t the moment to complain.  
Stiles closes his honey-colored eyes, inhales, and visualizes the music. He starts in, and not even at the fourth bar, Derek stops him once more.   
“No. NO! What are you doing?!” His strong arms reach for the sky. “Where is the angst?! Do you remember what Elgar wanted to say with this? How horrified he was by the war and all the suffering that ensued? This is melancholy in its highest form. All I'm getting from you is your exhaustion and lack of enthusiasm. He fucking hummed this on his deathbed, Stiles. Are you getting any of this?!”  
The brunette wears his thin veil of sweat like a cloak of shame.   
Nothing. He just can’t get it right.   
  
One large bead of perspiration hiccups its way down the groove between Stiles’ shoulders, soaking into the waist band of his underwear when it reaches the small of his back. He takes a moment, followed by a deep breath.  
“I thought it was good.” His little nose twitches from nerves as he wipes the moisture from his brow with the back of his bow hand.  
“I mean,” his voice trembles, “better than last week, right? I’ve made progress. Also, it’s hot. I can’t concentrate today.”  
In reality, Stiles’ difficulties in focusing stem from his overwhelming attraction to his teacher, even though the maestro is being very stern with him. Perhaps that’s almost what’s turning him on increasingly.   
  
Derek, large hands draped over the seat in front of him, chuckles. “I don’t know which point of idiocy to address first. You THOUGHT? What you think doesn’t matter. It’s what arrives out here that matters. And here… “ he points to his heart.  
“I know we say we play for ourselves. But ultimately, we play to move people. To send a message. I don’t think even YOU felt anything. And as for me, I perceived a tickle. Maybe it was just my allergies. It definitely wasn’t your music. Is that what you want? People sniffling because of pollen and not because they are moved to tears?! Do you even care at all? And furthermore...it’s hot  _now_?! Wait ‘till all the spot lights are on and the full orchestra is on stage.”  
  
Stiles’ heart sinks. It’s been a month and a half of practicing this concerto and Maestro has not been happy. Not one.single.time.   
He stares out into the theatre in quiet anguish. Stiles is exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, and physically. He’s been playing 7 hours a day plus attending classes. And worst of all, his heart hurts. He pines for someone he can’t have, and who apparently doesn’t even respect him as a musician. Instead, Stiles thinks the world of Derek Hale and wants nothing more than to please him. (And pleasure him, but that’s another story).   
“I don’t know what more you want from me,” he murmurs, reaching down to touch the f-holes of his cello. The red in the varnish of his 150-year-old instrument is bright under the neon.   
“What?!” Derek rises. He storms from his seat onto the stage, green eyes aflame with anger.   
“What did you say?!”

Stiles flinches. Shit. Does he want to get dropped a week before his performance?!  
He’s in trouble now. The cello between Stiles’ legs quivers.  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m just tired. I’m sorry, Maestro.” The brunette’s voice is shaky.   
  
Derek places himself in front of Stiles, legs shoulder-width apart. His arms are crossed over his massive chest. Stiles can’t help but notice he looks particularly attractive today, despite all the rage taking over his gorgeous face. His jeans fit perfectly, stressing the muscular definition of his legs. The sea foam v-neck he’s wearing hugs his torso and matches his eyes.   
And what’s sexier yet: his brow is furrowed, crimson lips pursed, and there’s an angry glow to his normally pale cheeks. Sometimes Stiles wonders if he subconsciously makes him angry just to enjoy him in this state. He doesn’t think in the twelve months he’s studied under Derek that he’s seen him smile once.  
  
“How long have you been here?” the teacher demands.  
Stiles stutters. “Fa- four years.”   
“And this is your senior performance?”  
“Yes.” Stiles bites into the corner of his mouth.  
“So you don’t care at all, then? You chose Elgar because it’s a staple and you don’t give a shit.”  
The heaviness returns to Stiles’ chest. What does he need to do to prove to Derek that he LIVES for the cello?  
“No. No. I do care.” There’s a desperate edge to his tone. “I chose Elgar because it’s beautiful. I’ve always dreamed of playing it.” The neck perched against his clavicle suddenly feels a thousand pounds.   
  
Derek guffaws, studying the man’s face. This situation couldn’t be more cliché. Derek sees so much of himself in Stiles Stilinski, from the arrogance to the passion. Not to mention the talent, (though Derek is undoubtedly the better cellist). The young raven-haired soloist started on violin when he was 2 and a half and was on the cello by the age of 5.  
Derek Hale was a prodigy. When it was understood his talents were better devoted to a stringed instrument rather than the piano, his destiny was set. The young Mr. Hale played with an orchestra for the first time when he was 9. He studied in Russia and then at Juilliard with only the best instructors. It’s no wonder that at 28 he was already a tenured professor at his alma mater.   
In a word, Derek Hale is in a position to judge and also to require perfection from his students. The brunette doesn’t believe it, but Derek truly thinks Stiles Stilinski is amazingly talented. This is why he is pushing him so hard. Derek has known the man but a year, but it’s been ample time to get to truly discover him and what he’s capable of.   
Derek is not wrong. Stiles is afraid of tapping into emotion, mostly due to his back story. While the older man can appreciate this, it’s a brake he’s pulled on his music without realizing it. If only Stiles would allow himself to  _feel._    
It doesn’t help that Derek’s judgment is _slightly_ clouded because he, in turn, is feeling  _too much_. He fell in love with his student over three months ago. The harder he fell, the more harshly he treated him, channeling his sexual energy into musical expectations. And now Elgar. Fucking Elgar. One of the most beautiful concertos ever written and personally, Derek’s favorite.  Stiles just can’t seem to get the emotion right.  
It’s becoming more and more difficult for the young Maestro to compartmentalize his attraction. Everything about the boy keeps Derek up at night, usually with incredible erections. He’s sweet, hilarious, and all his nervous tics are endearing. It’s also impossible to deny his beauty. Every mole on the boy’s body, (what little Derek has seen exposed) drives the cellist insane. He is definitely gone for him. He wonders this and other things when the clock strikes 2:38 a.m. (his witching hour), whether the boy might feel the same.  
Stiles waits for a reaction from Derek, who seems lost in thought.   
“Maestro?” Stiles asks. Derek shakes himself into attention, pushing the question into the back of his mind.   
“You’re Polish, Stiles.”  
Stiles looks at him surprised. “Is that an affirmation or a question, Maestro?”  
The cellist leans down. “God, you’re an adorable little shit,” he thinks to himself.   
“Stiles… I know you’re Polish. It was an affirmation. Use that. Your people have a history. Use that żal you naturally have. So many Poles were great musicians, I don’t need to list them. It’s in your blood.”  
  
Stiles is confused. He knows the word to mean grief though it has many uses.  
“You want me to tap into my grief?”  
The cello case resting against the nearby chair gets moved, and Derek takes a seat.  
“Have you ever read Liszt’s book about Chopin?”  
The brunette shakes his head.   
Derek stares up at the ceiling, quoting the part of the book to which he is referring from memory:  
_“Once, the Countess d’Agoult asked Chopin “by what name he called that which he enclosed in his compositions, like unknown ashes in superb urns of most exquisitely chiselled alabaster?”_  
_“Conquered by the appealing tears which moistened the beautiful eyes,” continues the flowery Liszt, “with a candor rare indeed in this artist, so susceptible upon all that related to the secrets of the sacred relics buried in the gorgeous shrines of his music, he replied that her heart had not deceived her in the gloom which she felt stealing upon her, for whatever might have been his transitory pleasures, he had never been free from a feeling which might almost be said to form the soil of his heart, and for which he could find no appropriate expression except in his own language, no other possessing a term equivalent to the Polish word Zal! As if his ears thirsted for the sound of this word, which expresses the whole range of emotions produced by intense regret, through all the shades of feeling, from hatred to repentance, he repeated it again and again.”_  
Derek stares into Stiles’ honey eyes when he closes his quotation, lingering a bit too long on the boy’s lips once his gaze drops. Stiles isn’t sure if he’s seeing things that aren’t there, but did he detect a spark?  
  
“Play the theme from Schindler’s List for me. Reflect on what that meant for your people. What it meant to the world. Reflect on the sorrow in your life…USE IT. Go…” His fingers wave in Stiles’ direction. “Close your eyes, and I’ll close mine. Hold on, I’ll turn down the lights, too.”  
Derek walks the short steps to the dimmer on the wall, making the room quite dark.   
Stiles’ mind wanders a moment. His memories take him to a very unhappy time. His mother’s passing. He doesn’t have to struggle very much to recall how heartbreaking it was to lose her. He positions his fingers on the strings, bow poised near the bridge. Derek stands with his back against the wall, eyes shut.  
“Go,” he whispers.   
Stiles plays the opening bars. The cello vibrates against him, he and the music becoming one. Derek holds his breath, enthralled within seconds. He realizes after a couple minutes that Stiles is having a breakthrough.   
The boy delves deeper and deeper into his being, pulling from places he never thought. Images flash into his mind. Auschwitz, yes. But also the rainy day his mother was put to rest. The face of his father, the Sheriff back in Beacon Hills, weathered by bereavement and agony. He can almost taste the tears he shed that afternoon as they fell onto his lips in streams.  
By the time he’s reached the climax of the piece, tears do squeeze past both his and Derek’s closed lids. The briny taste is all too familiar. His inhales and exhales audibly, using whatever is left of his energy.  
Derek has nothing to say technically. The notes are correct, the vibrato is spot on. It’s the rest that is superlative. The sheer sorrow behind the notes… it’s giving Derek goose bumps and his heart is in his gullet, bursting.   
Stiles did it. He gave in to his emotions.  
  
When the piece ends with the last A minor chord, Stiles collapses over the cello, sobbing. Derek is so overwhelmed with sentiment he can’t swallow down the lump that has formed in his throat.  
“Stiles…” he barely makes out. The love he’s been hiding has hit him like a flood.  
Upon hearing his name, the brunette looks fixedly in his direction.  
Derek is weeping, his face wet. His hands hang loosely at his sides.  
“Stiles… put the cello down,” he murmurs.  
  
Stiles isn’t sure what is happening, but his heart is racing. Derek is looking at him unusually (for Derek), but in a way he recognizes. He had studied Derek with the same eyes when he first fell for him. It was about four months back. Stiles had turned up early for his lesson, and Derek was still in his office, doing some warm-ups. His door was open, but he was sitting with his back to it. Stiles perched there, leaning against the doorframe. He got to witness a side of the young prodigy few are privy to.  
When Derek glided over the neck, the sweet notes of Bach’s Cello Suite prelude 1 caressing his ears, Stiles was hypnotized. As much by the execution as by the muscles in his teacher’s arms and back flexing with each bow. That’s when Stiles knew he was done.   
“Derek?” Stiles has never called him by his first name.  
“Stiles, please put the cello down,” Derek implores him.  
He takes three steps until he is nearly at Stiles’ side. The teacher’s trembling, light-headed from a lack of oxygen. Stiles literally took his breath away.  
The brunette is in worse shape, violently shaking from fatigue and agitation. He gently lifts the instrument, laying it down next to the chair with great care. With equal slowness, almost dreamily, he unscrews the tightness on the bow's frog and rests it over the top.  
Stiles stands up, facing Derek. The room is still shadowy but they see one another perfectly.  
  
Derek extends his arm, wiping the tears from under Stiles’ eye with a quivering fingertip. The boy’s long lashes are moist, his cheek warm. Stiles cups his hand over his teacher’s, leaning into his touch, cheek to palm. They both sigh.  
Stiles has dreamed of this for months. He had no idea Derek felt anything but contempt for him.  
“That was haunting, Stiles,” Derek states in a hushed tone. “Absolutely riveting. Play your Elgar like that and there won’t be a dry eye in the theatre. I’m so proud of you.”  
The brunette has lost his words. What is happening? Are they… is he….?  
“Thank you,” he mutters. “You don’t know what that means to me. I’ve waited a year to hear you say that, Derek.”  
The raven-haired teacher blushes, almost ashamed he’s been so hard on him.  
“I’m sorry I treated you so harshly, Stiles.” His other hand joins Stiles’ other cheek. “And since we’re in a confessing mood, there’s another thing I have to tell you.”

His tiny nose crinkles, a nervous lick of his lower lip before he declares himself. The boy swallows hard, thinking he knows what’s coming but not wanting to jump to any conclusions.  
“Yes?” Stiles’ golden-brown eyes dilate.  
Derek leans forward, his lips grazing his student’s.  
“Stiles, I’m in love with you.” The words just float there between them. Too late to take anything back.  
_Oh god._  
  
Stiles’ lunges blindly in response, their hungry mouths finally crashing together. Stiles pulls Derek to his yearning body, one hand twisted into the back of his head while his fingering hand plays Derek’s spine. Derek recognizes the positions. It’s the opening to Elgar.  
The elder seeks his heat, kissing into the boy’s supple skin until he finds a spot halfway down his neck that makes Stiles whimper. A dark bruise appears below his tongue.  
“I want you, Derek.” Stiles pants. “I’ve loved you for months. I need to be with you. Please…” He lifts his chin, giving himself to the man. Their pulsating groins rub in urgent want as they knead each other’s backs.  
“Yes, angel,” Derek sighs between kisses. “Me too.”  
  
Derek’s strong arms guide him down to the floor, and Stiles bends his knees until he’s flat against the boards.  
Neither care that someone might walk in on them. What matters right now is to fall into each other’s orbits… months of longing have culminated into this.  
Derek tugs on Stiles’ lower lip, undoing his belt. The cellist’s hard cock pops out of his underwear when his pants are tossed aside a moment later.  
Stiles helps get things moving, removing Derek’s shirt. The man looks like an alabaster Greek statue once he shows himself. Even in the semi-darkness his perfection is visible.  
“Jesus, you’re beautiful…” Stiles admires him, breathless.  
  
Derek grins, shocking the young man. This is the first time he’s seen his stunning smile.  
“ _You are_ , Stiles. Everything about you is beautiful.”  
Stiles fumbles with Derek’s top button but then without too much difficulty, also the older man’s trousers are shimmied off.  
They lie naked on the stage, kissing passionately as they stroke each other’s large cocks.  
“So hot,” Stiles breathes. “I want to taste you.” Stiles thumbs over the crown, pulling up the foreskin.  
Derek rolls onto his backside, his long, uncut dick flat against his belly. When Stiles slides down on it, tongue licking it up and down like a candy cane, the man beneath him melts.  
  
“Oh Stiles,” he moans. The brunette kitten licks his slit, the salty pre-cum reminding Stiles of the ocean.  
“You taste like the sea,” Stiles smacks his lips.  
He works the shaft with his strong, trained fingers, tugging in an even rhythm. He takes him deep and then ending by sucking only at the rounded, flush tip.  
“Ugh fuck,” Derek begs. “Stop, Stiles. Stop. I’m close. I wanna fuck you. Please…need to be inside you.”  
The brunette nods, ceasing his ministrations. He softly kisses Derek’s inner thighs before licking a stripe all the way up his body.  
Derek plays with Stiles’ hair until he reaches his plump mouth again.  
Stiles offers his tongue to suck, and Derek takes it. Stiles’ member is leaking pre-cum, the droplets wetting Derek’s stomach.  
“Need you,” the teacher mews. “Ride me.”  
Derek’s powerful hands spread Stiles’ perfect mounds, a finger full of saliva and pre-cum circling over his opening.  
“Oh fuck,” groans the brunette. “I want you so badly. Fuck me, Derek. Fuck me.”  
  
Derek sits up, helping to balance Stiles but not before inhaling his cock for a minute.  
“Mmm,” his word vibrates against it and Stiles hisses. Stiles isn’t as long as Derek, but he is thicker. Derek pushes all the way to his pubes, throat fucking him. His hands massage his ass, nails digging into his creamy skin as he pounds him into the back of his throat.  
“Oh god, Der… Ohgodohgodohgod…” Derek is doing _the other thing_ he does best. Giving head. He’s got stamina and skill. Stiles is whimpering again, and it’s making Derek’s cock twitch.  
“Der, I’m close. Oh shit… don’t stop. I’m gonna cum...please don’t stop.”  
  
Derek pulls off just enough, increasing suction until his cheeks hurt. He adds a twist of the fist at the ample base and that’s when Stiles comes undone. The warmth rises, traveling from his lower belly into his shaft.  
“Jesus fuck Der!” Stiles screams as he jizzes in Derek’s thirsty mouth. Once. Twice. A third time. Derek slows the jerking until Stiles doesn’t prop himself with his arms on the wooden floor below. When he’s swallowed all of it, he releases his hold.  
  
“Holy god,” Stiles exclaims, angling to kiss the teacher. “So fucking hot, Derek. So fucking hot. Here I thought you were only good at playing and teaching cello.”  
The second grin of the night is rewarded to the young man as Derek wipes his beard of spit and cum.  
“Like the cello, practice makes perfect,” he winks.  
Stiles shakes his head, smirking. “You are such a little slut, Derek Hale.”  
Derek positions Stiles’ butt above his groin, inserting two fingers into his ass and scissoring.  
“Ugh, fuck,” Stiles hums, riding his fingers. “Gimme more, baby. More.”  
“Of course I’m a slut,” Derek discloses as he puts in a third, nimble digit. “I’m a musician.”  
  
Stiles sucks his pouty lower lip, hands splayed on Derek’s hairy pecs. The man couldn’t be more perfect.  
“Fuck,” the brunette increases speed. “Put it in Der, I want to fuck myself on your cock. Put it in.”  
The Maestro doesn’t have to be told twice. "Wallet...pants. Condom."  
Seconds later his throbbing member is sheathed, taking the place of his hand, gliding into the stretched muscle with relative ease.  
“I see I’m not the only slut,” he jokes. “But still so nice and tight.”  
The clench is perfect, and Stiles sits down to the hilt almost immediately.  
“Ohhhhh goddamn,” Derek digs his fingers into his thighs until he leaves light bruises.  
“It’s –“ _thrust_   “all”  _thrust_  “dildo work,” the brunette is enjoying himself. “No time to date.”  
  
Stiles moves up and down, raising and lowering his ass on Derek’s hot, throbbing dick. From the back, the member disappears inside the brunette with delicious precision.  
Derek bucks up a few times, but allows Stiles the lead.  
“That’s it, angel, ride me. Break me,” he pleads.  
  
Stiles loses himself in the sensation of being so full, sweat covering both men in a light sheen.  
“Fuckfuckfuck” the boy recites, picking up pace.  
Derek’s head is thrown back, he’s dangerously close himself. Stiles is hard again, and the teacher has just enough clarity left to jerk him off.  
  
The bounce is furious now, Stiles hammering his prostate. His muscle pulls so hard on Derek’s cock, it’s blinding him with lust. A few more times and Derek is going to cum, and hard. He slows his tugs just long enough to focus on his orgasm.  
“FUCK STILES, FUUCCCCCKKK” Derek disintegrates under him. His cock spasms and Derek thrusts as hard as he can into the brunette when he releases four milky and creamy ropes of cum.  
Stiles ejaculates again when the copious liquid warms inside him from within the condom. It’s such a strong jet it covers Derek’s chest in pearly spots, almost hitting him in the chin.  
  
“Oh shit,” Stiles pants. “Fuck that was good.”  
He pulls off slowly, the condom swelling full of jizz. He ties it off before collapsing onto his lover’s sternum.  
Derek leans down, kissing Stiles on the tip of his nose.  
“It’s a good thing you’ve got a week left. I couldn’t go on teaching you after this, angel. I’d call this a conflict of interest, wouldn’t you? Thank God I submitted performance reviews already.”  
Stiles bats his eyelashes at him, a peachy sex glow on his face.  
“I love you.”  
Derek fixes Stiles’ bangs. “I love you, too.”  
“I was trying to study the other day, and all I could think about was you. Something hit me.”  
The prodigy is intrigued. “What?”  
Stiles traces a heart over Derek’s real one. “You’re like winter rosin.”  
The elder chuckles. “How so?”  
“Well,” Stiles continues, “you are dark yet soft. Rather unemotional, yet incredibly so about music. Suited to colder situations and lower registers, like the timbre of your voice that always sends me into ecstasy. I actually like it when you’re angry with me. I kinda wanna make ‘Again, Stiles’ my ring tone. Haha.”  
Derek can’t help but giggle.  
  
“Stiles, this is the strangest pillow talk I have ever had.”  
The brunette begs a kiss. “Doesn’t surprise me. I’m the strangest student you’ve ever had.”  
To this, Derek can’t but agree. “Indeed. I can’t wait to hear you play the Elgar. I know it’s going to be exemplary. Just remember what you felt here today and replicate it. You know the music, and now you know yourself better. Just put those things together.”  
Stiles nods, resting his chin on his knuckles. “I couldn’t have done this without you, you know.”  
Derek Hale is beaming. “Yeah, maybe I had a little something to do with it. But the rest, that was always there.”  
Stiles’ eyes grow murky a second. “What happens now? I mean…with us.”  
Derek doesn't even flinch. “You graduate. We’ll take it one day at a time. For now, let’s just enjoy this and get you to your performance. Now come on, we better get dressed and clean up. I don’t want to end up in the papers as the guy who gave Itzhak Perlman a fatal coronary from shock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Research for the article was taken from Strings magazine, Liszt's biography of Chopin, and my own personal experience from playing the violin.  
> If you haven't heard the Elgar Cello Concerto, please do so. Du Pre's version will have you in tears.  
> Also if someone like Derek Hale ever did play cello, I just might fucking die.


End file.
